


Breathe With Me

by thelilacfield



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - D/s Society, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilacfield/pseuds/thelilacfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine, a routine-craving sub, is in a relationship with a man who dies in an accident, leaving him alone. Kurt is an old friend of said Dom, who asked him in the past to look after his sub if something happens to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe With Me

**A/N:** Written for [this prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/43590.html?thread=58027846#t58027846) on the GKM.

* * *

 

Every morning, Blaine awakes at six thirty and presses a soft kiss to Scott's temple before he slips out of their warm bed to shower. After his shower, he dresses in his loose clothes and prepares breakfast: two pancakes with lemon juice and sugar for him, and muesli with sliced apple and skimmed milk for Scott. By quarter past seven, Scott's awake and padding barefoot into the kitchen, pressing exactly five sweet kisses to Blaine's mouth and sitting down opposite him to eat, feet playing against the skin of Blaine's ankle, the two of them exchanging secretive loving smiles across the table.

At precisely twenty-five to eight, Scott goes into the shower while Blaine lays out the prepared day's outfit, packs his bag with his clothes and shoes for his intense rehearsals. Eight o'clock comes and Blaine sees Scott out of the door after helping him dress and style his hair. By eight thirty, Blaine's made the bed, cleaned and organised the bathroom and washed the dishes.

He leaves those drying on the rack while he cleans the apartment from top to bottom and takes care of any messages Scott has asked him to attend to. By twelve o'clock, the dishes from breakfast are dry, and Blaine makes himself lunch: a chicken sandwich on wholemeal bread with slightly salted butter, which he has eaten and washed away by twelve thirty. For two and a half hours, until exactly three o'clock, he works on writing his play, aiming to write five pages before he goes to kneel at the door and await Scott's return.

But today - January 24th, 2016 - Scott doesn't arrive home promptly at four o'clock, as he always does. Blaine waits, head bowed, hands on his thighs, for him to walk through the door, expecting to hear the sound of his feet on the corridors outside and the door to open for Scott to kneel with him and kiss him slow and deep, thrumming with the adrenaline of eight hours hard rehearsing. His eyes fall closed, and he rubs his hands gently against his skin, and he waits in quiet need.

* * *

Exhausted, Kurt leaves Oliver's office with loose pieces of corrected script falling out of his folder, tangling with the scarf fluttering around his neck as his phone starts to ring. Dropping several papers in his scramble to reach it, he answers with a breathless, "Kurt Hummel speaking, how can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," says a brusque voice, and Kurt freezes. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you are listed as the person to contact in case of emergency for one Scott Zachary Fields."

"Did something happen to Scott?" Kurt asks nervously, chewing on his lower lip and pressing the phone harder against his ear.

"His car skidded on black ice when he was heading home from a rehearsal, according to the diary we found at the scene," the voice explains, and Kurt slumps against the wall, blinking back tears. "He slammed into a line of cars pausing at a stoplight, though thankfully no one else has been severely injured. However, Mr. Fields was found slumped over the wheel and unconscious when ambulances were rushed to the scene, and while the doctors did their best to save him, he'd suffered massive blood loss and died on the operating table. It was a heart attack, and he was already deeply unconscious. He didn't suffer." They clear their throat while Kurt swallows the lump forming in his throat, blinking hard to hold back the tears burning behind his eyes. "There's a note on his file about his submissive, Blaine Anderson. It says here that Mr. Fields wished for you to take care of his submissive if anything should happen to him. Are you able to do that?"

Pushing down the swell of sadness, Kurt fights to keep his voice carefully level as he answers, "Of course, of course, I always said I'd take full responsibility for Blaine if anything happened to Scott. I'll drive over to their place right now and tell Blaine what's happened. Thank you for letting me know. Is there a way to let his family know I'll handle the funeral if it's too painful for them?"

"They're here speaking with the staff, I will inform them, Mr. Hummel," the person says, their voice still clipped and professional. "Once again, I am very sorry for your loss."

Kurt hangs up, and sits for a minute to organise his folders and collect his thoughts, allowing the tears to fall freely. Scott was so full of  _life_ , dancing and grinning and telling awful jokes that made everyone around him groan but for Blaine, who'd always laugh just to see Scott's eyes light up with joy. And when he thinks about what that poor beautiful boy will have to go through now, losing the centre of his world, it only makes him want to cry harder, curl up on this floor and drown in his own tears.

But he has business to attend to. He has to go to Scott's gorgeous apartment, sleek and perfectly organised, and find Blaine there, probably kneeling at the door waiting for Scott to come through the door and kiss him, and get him to his feet and explain that Scott's dead. He has to find a way to get Blaine to pack his belongings and come home with him, set up the guest room to be his home for the foreseeable future, knowing he can't afford that apartment alone. And, if Scott's family don't want to organise the funeral, that will fall on him.

He gives himself ten minutes to recover from his tears, gazing critically at his blotchy face while he splashes cold water onto his overheated skin in the bathroom, before he hurries out to his car and drives achingly slowly to Scott's apartment, the knowledge that Blaine will have no one if he gets killed weighing heavy on his shoulders. Retrieving his spare key, one he was emphatically told was only for emergencies, he jogs lightly up the five flights of stairs to the door and unlocks it.

"Scott, sweetheart, where were you?" comes Blaine's excited voice, and Kurt's heart breaks for him. The bright golden light of Blaine's eyes dims when he finds Kurt there instead of Scott, his voice dull as he says, "Oh, sorry, Kurt. Is Scott with you? He didn't tell me he'd be late."

"Blaine, up off your knees," Kurt says, and he can't help the instinctive thrill that shoots through him when Blaine obeys his gentle command. "Sit down on the couch, please. There's something I have to tell you." Looking scared, Blaine hurries over to the couch and sinks into the perfectly plumped blue cushions, as Kurt perches stiffly in the high-backed armchair, looking at this boy, so hopeful and innocent and happily in love, about to have his world turned upside-down.

There doesn't seem to be any point in delaying what he inevitably has to tell him, so Kurt takes a deep breath to steady himself and slowly explains, "Scott was involved in a car accident on his way home to you. He skidded on black ice and slammed into a line of cars waiting at a red light. The ambulances found him unconscious, and, while the doctors did everything they could to save him, he died on the operating table. He suffered massive blood loss, and he was deeply unconscious when a heart attack killed him. They say he didn't suffer."

All colour has drained out of Blaine, his eyes round and glistening with tears, lower lip quivering as Kurt continues, "I've discussed this extensively with Scott, and we've both talked to you, and the three of us were always of the understanding that I would take care of you if something happened to him. I know you can't keep up the rent on this place alone, and I would greatly prefer for you to come home with me so I can keep an eye on you throughout the next few months. Can you pack a bag while I wait out here?"

"Scott's dead." Blaine's voice is barely more than a breath, his tone cold and muted and void of emotion. "He was my anchor. The man who was my everything is dead and you expect me to pack a bag and follow you home?!"

"On your knees!" Kurt shouts it instinctively, trying to regain control of the situation, but Blaine hits the ground almost before he's finished speaking, head bowed to expose the vulnerable back of his neck, hands on his thighs and eyes focused on the floor, not drifting once from the wood. He's a beautiful picture of submission, and Kurt fights down his dominant hormones as a creature roars in his chest, telling him to just  _take_.

Standing tall, he lays a gentle hand curved over the top of Blaine's head, feeling him shudder at the traditional gesture, an assertion of dominance and an acceptance of submission, and slowly, deliberately enunciating every syllable, says, "You will go to the bedroom and pack as many of your belongings as you can into the cases you have available. Whatever you don't get, we'll retrieve over the next few days before we arrange for your landlord to have this apartment sold on. You will come home with me, and I'll set up the guest room for you to stay there until you get back on your feet. You will let me take care of you because that's what Scott wanted."

Blaine keeps his eyes cast down as a vivid flush creeps over his softening face, up towards his hairline. His throat works furiously, as if the words are caught like shards of glass in his throat, and the words are strained, tremulous with emotion, when he finally chokes out a faint, "Sorry, sir. Yes, sir."

"Hey, I'm just Kurt to you, if you're not comfortable calling me by a title," Kurt whispers with a sweet, reassuring smile, laying a hand gently on Blaine's shoulder. He starts at the touch, and Kurt pulls his hand back as if burned, hating how nervous he is to be touched by anyone but Scott. "You have twenty minutes."

Blaine nods and stands slowly, head still bowed in sweet obedience, and Kurt watches him walk away and into his bedroom with soft eyes, seeing the defeated slump of his shoulders and the shuffling resignation in his walk. He wants to just wrap this fragile being up in his arms and whisper sweetness into his ear until the tension slips away from him and he relaxes, no longer nervous or angry or scared or sad, but simply content and floating on the edges of subspace, calm and soft and indescribably handsome.

Anxiously tapping his fingernails against the arm of the chair he's slumped into, staring hard into the fibres of the carpet just to avoid catching sight of the pictures of Scott standing proud in their frames of silver and gold and polished wood, knowing he can't take care of Blaine if he breaks down himself, Kurt watches the twenty minutes pass with the swaying of the tongue on the frog-shaped clock mounted onto the cream-painted walls. He allows Blaine an extra five minutes, lenient in all he's going through, before he stands and goes to the closed bedroom door, desperately worried about it, stomach twisting into knots at the idea of not taking sufficient care of Blaine, betraying Scott's trust.

He doesn't have to knock to know what's wrong. Alone, Blaine is broken, gut-wrenching sobs echoing through the gaps between door and wall, door and floor. Inhaling deeply to control his own emotions, Kurt knocks deliberately on the door and calls out, "Blaine, let me in."

Footsteps cross the bedroom, the click of a lock echoes harshly on the air, and the door inches open to a beautiful face ravaged with crying, the unusual liquid gold of Blaine's eyes brightly polished by a sheen of tears, his cheeks blotched red and nose running and lower lip quivering violently. Kurt doesn't pause before stepping across the threshold and gathering him into his arms. Blaine stills, and his arms twitch, clearly trying to struggle away, but Kurt whispers, "Let me hold you," and he relaxes, melting into his embrace.

"Cry for me, Blaine," Kurt insists, and Blaine stops holding back, raw sobs ripped from his throat as his fingers dig into Kurt's back, desperate for anything to hold, to anchor himself to where he's a ship drifting alone on the ocean, unmoored. "No one is here but you and me. Just let it out."

He doesn't know how long they stand there. It's timed by the ragged rise and fall of Blaine's chest against his, his sobs slowly subsiding into sniffles and gulping, and his head finally rising from Kurt's shoulder, loose curls falling over his forehead to make him look absurdly young. Kurt reaches to the table next to him for a tissue, offering it to Blaine and smiling comfortingly at him as he dabs up the lingering silvery tear tracks. "Better?" he asks softly.

"Much," Blaine answers meekly, returning Kurt's smile. It's a pale, shaken imitation, but a small smile nonetheless. "Thank you. I needed to be allowed to cry."

Taking Blaine's chin gently between two fingers, Kurt tips his face up to look into his eyes and promise, "As long as you're with me, you are always allowed to cry as much as you need. You've lost the centre of your world, Blaine, tears are inevitable." Glancing around at the undisturbed room, knowing Blaine collapsed into tears the second the door clicked shut behind him, he rubs Blaine's back in soothing circles, seeing his eyes fall touch at the simple comforting touch, and offers, "What if I were to help you choose what it's necessary to have with you for the next few days while we collect the rest of your belongings and move them to my place?"

"I'd like that," Blaine says, lips curving into a genuine, sweet smile, his hand covering Kurt's briefly as he moves away. His touch is gentle, but it sends a shock to Kurt's core, and he gazes openly at Blaine in the secret moment while he's tugging drawers open and considering each carefully organised collection of clothing with a tilted head.

It would be so easy to let this boy break down his walls and carve out a niche in his heart. Blaine Anderson has the power to break him simply by lifting a finger, and the strangest thing is that Kurt doesn't care at all that Blaine could unpick his stitches, as long as he has as many of those touches as possible before Blaine lets him fall apart.

* * *

Blaine doesn't know much about Kurt. He's tall, unusually slender in some places and muscular in others, almost a dancer's body despite the fact that Blaine knows he's in musical theatre and not exclusively dancing like Scott, he has eyes that change colour like the ocean and a smile that lights up his entire being. His hands are large and pale, moving slowly and expert in folding clothes and packing suitcases to maximise the available space. He's quiet and contemplative while they pack and leave, and each time he asks for something sends a warm wash of relief over Blaine, the wonderful embrace of being taken care of and taking care of someone else, being asked to obey and obeying without question.

But he's not Scott, and nothing can change that. He doesn't have Scott's gentle long fingers, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes that only grew brighter as the years passed, the persistently pink cheeks, the smile lines sketching in at the corners of his eyes or the harsh bark of his laugh, the thing he hated most about himself but Blaine always loved for how  _human_  it was. Scott was always laughing and telling terrible jokes, dressing in wrinkled shirts because "Jesus, Blaine, I wore it for one day, it's not even sweaty, it's  _fine_!" and never learning to knot his own tie, always allowing Blaine to do it with a sweet smile on his face and wet kisses smacked to Blaine's cheek. Blaine fell in love with a man who had a persistent seasonal cough from chain-smoking all through college, who chewed gum with feverish eyes when he was stressed enough to want to return to nicotine, who danced late into the night because his art took him to another realm where time didn't exist, who'd lean over while Blaine was writing to trace random words with his fingertips and kiss his jaw, scraping his teeth against Blaine's stubble while murmuring how proud he was.

Kurt is just a vague presence, hovering next to the two of them at parties, always without a date and coerced into being the designated driver, watching with eyes that seem to know everything as they danced and drank and loved, glass of water in his hand, until such a time as he stood up and chivvied them out into the cool air. Blaine has rarely acknowledged him, absorbed in Scott's eyes and his smile and his touch, but he's always known how close the two men were, after sharing similarly awful break-ups in their first year of college and bonding over practicing late into rain-washed nights to numb the loneliness. Scott always made it clear that, were something to happen to him, Kurt would look after Blaine for as long as he needed.

But Blaine never imagined this, never even considered it on the outer fringes of the realm of possibility, in the back of car with his suitcases pinning him in place, feeling the clutch of hands pressing at his throat as Kurt pulls away from his  _home_  and follows traffic to another apartment block. He never imagined losing Scott, not like this, or being trapped by someone who reminds him so much of everything he's lost because he promised, and he can't disobey. He refuses to.

Kurt opens the door for him when the engine cuts off outside the apartments, and Blaine stands nervously, running his eyes over the corners and windows of the building while Kurt reaches inside to gather his luggage. "My apartment is on the fifth floor, the door is painted black and mounted with a silver 14," he says gently. "I'm going to go ahead with your belongings and start organising the guest room for you. Come as slowly as you want. There's a coffee shop down the street if you just want a little time to yourself. But I want you to be in the apartment before eight thirty tonight, by then everything will be ready for you."

Blaine nods and slips away from him, head spinning, walking blindly in the realm of calm seaside paintings on the walls and ordering his coffee without an inkling of what the barista looks like. He finds himself in a secluded table for one, tucked far in the back behind a column, where no one can find him. Steam hisses up in tiny plumes as his tears splash gently into the sepia surface of his coffee.

Thankfully, no one bothers him. He sits at the table for three hours, refreshing his coffee each time thirty minutes passes by, before he stands and offers the woman cleaning the counter a small smile as he leaves all his loose change in the tip jar. A cold breeze washes over him as he leaves, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and walking a little faster.

Kurt doesn't greet him at the door when he slips as quietly as possible into the apartment. Instead, Blaine looks for the slightly open door, hearing soft music drifting out of the room, and rushes to it. His eyes widen when he sees what awaits him, a painful lump forming in his throat and all words seeming useless.

The room is welcoming, as if simply waiting for him to live there, the silvery moonlight playing across the pale blue carpet and the white rugs scattered across it, the comforter folded back ready for someone to slide there and sleep warm and content, the warm yellow lamplight lighting up the white walls printed with interlinked circles in varying shades of blue. "I know it's not much," Kurt says quietly, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead and bobbing on his strangely adorable bare feet, "but I though you could put your posters and photographs on the walls, and we could shop for ornaments or whatever you want to have in here this weekend. What do you think?"

Gulping back tears, Blaine doesn't see Kurt until strong arms are around him, pulling him close against a warm, solid body, and Kurt's voice is in his ear, whispering, "Shush, shush, it's okay. It's okay. Don't cry."

Kurt's word slip down into Blaine's soul, and the tears dry on his cheeks. But he doesn't let go of Kurt, and Kurt doesn't make him. They both just stand there, wrapped up in each other, until Kurt finally steps back and tucks his finger beneath Blaine's chin. "I want you to stay in here and sleep," he says gently, and Blaine nods. "I don't want you getting out of bed unless you've had at least nine hours peaceful sleep. I won't let you get sick because of this."

Blaine watches Kurt leave, and he's almost gone when Blaine tentatively calls, "Kurt?" The man turns back, eyes bright and expression questioning. "Thank you. For this, for all of it, for everything."

"Don't mention it," Kurt says softly, smile warm and gentle. "You're going to take a while to get back on your feet, and I am here for you through all of it. Goodnight, Blaine. Sweet dreams."

And the strangest thing is, as Kurt's words and soft looks and sweet smiles play through his head as he sleeps, spread out like a starfish in this unfamiliar bed, Blaine's dream are light and beautiful, carrying no dark stain of death.

* * *

Kurt slips into Blaine's room when he awakes early the next morning, just to make sure he's still asleep. He looks so much smaller, curled around a pillow in the bed, his cheeks warm pink and glistening with the stain of tears. It takes a moment for Kurt to see the gleam of his eyes in the pale dawn light, and he says, "I told you to sleep," in a soft but firm voice.

"I couldn't, Kurt, I'm sorry," Blaine says, his voice small and tremulous, and Kurt finds himself slipping beneath the comforter, pressing the length of his body into Blaine's and holding him close, letting one hand cup over where his heart flutters like a trapped bird in the cage of his chest.

"Tell me why," Kurt breathes, so soft, trying not to disturb the quiet warmth of this moment, Blaine not trying to twist from his arms but relaxing slightly into his touch. He can't help but float in a fantasy for a moment. Blaine's head on the pillow next to his, dark hair free from its gel, spread out over the white of the pillow, rolling over with rumpled clothes and a sleepy smile lighting up those golden eyes as he leans in to kiss Kurt into morning.

"I keep thinking about Scott," Blaine murmurs sadly, pressing his cheek against Kurt's shoulder and letting his words out in a heavy rush. "All I can see is him crashing his car, dead at the wheel, and I keep seeing his eyes, lifeless and staring without seeing, and I can't bear to think of him like that. I loved him, and he was so full of life and joy, but now all I can see is his death."

Kurt brushes stray curls back from Blaine's forehead, feeling the sweat of nightmares cooling on his skin, and whispers, "Try something for me, sweetie. I want you to think of the happiest memory you have of him, and tell me what it is."

"Our first anniversary," Blaine says after barely a beat, and Kurt feels the curve of his smile against his arm. "Scott took me to my favourite Indian restaurant, and the staff treated us like royalty, and then he took me home and there were salmon roses for desire, and white roses with red edges for unity, and he was so sweet and gentle and he promised he would love me for the rest of our lives."

"I want you to hold on to that memory, and don't let it fade away," Kurt says gently, his hand gliding back and forth at the notch of Blaine's waist. "You have to remember the good things about him, and not lose yourself in the sadness of losing him." Pressing his forehead against the birthmark on the back of Blaine's neck, he explains, "I lost my mom when I was eight, and my dad always used to tell me to remember the happy things and not get too sad."

"He's a smart man," Blaine observes, and shifts in Kurt's arms, rolling over so he's further away, but he's warm and lax and smiling lazily, eyes bright like the morning sun spilling through the windows. "Kurt, may I just stay in bed today? This is a little difficult for me to come to terms with, and I just need some time alone."

"Do you promise to come out and eat something around one o'clock?" Kurt asks, and Blaine nods immediately. "Of course you can stay in here, sweetie. Scott's family are going to send me the funeral details, so you can decide whether you want to go or not. They'll know how much you're missing Scott, and you don't need to go if you think it'll be too difficult for you. This is entirely your decision."

"Thank you, sir," Blaine breathes. Kurt is about to correct him in using the title when Blaine hastily adds, "I know you don't want me to, because we're not in a claim and this is only for convenience until you find someone else, but it makes me feel better, just to have someone to call sir. It's like an anchor, you can't understand it as a Dom, but it makes me feel so much calmer and more secure in my own skin. It soothes me. Please let me."

"Of course, sweetie, of course you can call me sir, anything that will help you adjust," Kurt assures him, slowly sitting up. "But why do you only think I'll find someone else? You're beautiful, Blaine, and you seem to be a perfect submissive, of course someone will want you."

"You don't know everything, Kurt," Blaine says dully, peaking Kurt's curiosity. "And I could never be with another man. Scott was my one and only, to be with anyone else would feel like betraying him."

Kurt has to duck his head and bite his lip to hide the disappointment he feels rushing through him at those words, leaving Blaine curled up and grieving and slipping out as quietly as he entered. There are tears pressing at his throat, aching to get out, and he wants to fix this beautiful broken boy so badly, build him back up with hands and lips and words, make him bright and blooming once more.

It feels like a betrayal to Scott, to ache so badly for Blaine, for his lips and body and the flutter of his eyelashes when he's caught in the throes of ecstasy, but Kurt has been tossing and turning with helpless want for Blaine since the night he saw him. A black and white ball at , when Kurt took Scott as his plus one because he had no one else to invite. Blaine there with one of the models, bouncing and beaming in the centre of the dance floor, submission rolling from him in delicious waves that made both of them stop and shiver from the sheer strength of it.

Kurt spent so long trying to gather the courage to ask him to dance, watching him twist through each pounding beat with his friends, until people separated gladly into distinct couples and Blaine was left floundering for only a second before Scott swept in grandly, offering his hand in a suave gesture and sweeping Blaine around the floor. They were kissing and exchanging numbers by the end of the night, and a month later they were in a claim.

But Scott was his greatest friend, he came to represent acceptance in New York to Kurt, and he can't just betray him because his desire for Blaine hasn't stopped raging for three achingly long years. So many men he's pulled from clubs and bars, who bear the tiniest facet of resemblance to Blaine, and spent moonlit nights with, wishing for the glorious man who pulled all of their greatest features together loose and pleading beneath him.

He wants to love Blaine. Is there anything so wrong with that? To want love, to want someone to submit to them, it's the daydream of any Dominant. It's right. It shouldn't feel so wrong to Kurt's mind, to want Blaine twisting in the sheets for him, the olive of his skin juxtaposed against innocent white sheets, sullying their purity with orders in a low voice and groans dancing on slick-swollen lips.

Oh, but his urges are wrong. He is a Dominant, always has been, he shouldn't crave being held down, tied up, restrained while giving orders, taking and taking until his submissive is squirming before him, desperate for release, craving it, begging him. In his fantasies, those forbidden visions that make him gasp beneath the seductive cover of darkness, bedsprings squeaking beneath his rocking body, nameless, faceless bodies coalesce so easily into Blaine, eyes dark and shining with lust, sweat shining on the tanned slope of his neck and shoulder, nails digging sharply into Kurt's thighs and leaving red crescents marked into his pale skin, lips on his or gliding over the dips and planes of his body, worshipping. Sometimes it even goes as far as Blaine untying his ankles, bending him almost in half and fucking him until he screams, untying his hands in time for Kurt to wrap his arms around Blaine's neck and kiss him as he shudders and comes, hips rolling into Blaine.

It's an ache, and not a sweet one. For a Dominant to be denied like that, it's a physical wound that never heals, and he feels a little of him slipping away each time he has to glimpse the cuff on Blaine's wrist, entwined with complicated filigrees of silver, and it calls back the knowing that Blaine is only his in a fantasy, and in this world he is someone else's.

Except now, Scott is gone, Blaine is heartbroken, and Kurt is torn between his head and his heart.

* * *

When Blaine next awakes, the sky is grey with the coming dusk, and his cuff seems to have tightened around his wrist, constricting the blood flow to his fingers. When he pushes the button through its tiny hole and lets the strip of leather fall to the bed, it seems as if a part of him is torn away, and he arches with a sudden hollow pain deep in his chest, fingers grappling over the welts carved into his wrist. His breath coming in short, staccato gasps, reminiscent of the days before Scott, when he would awake without warning in a cold sweat, desperate for touches and commands and someone standing over him and making him kneel in diffidence, he slithers to the floor and crawls to the box of his most precious belongings, scrabbling through to find the slim, sleek black box.

The moment he buckles the collar around his neck with violently shaking hands, fingertips tracing in a ritual over the neat lines of  _SCOTT'S BLAINE_  embossed on the collar, the awful feeling melts away, replaced by a comforting warmth that worms its way down into his belly, and he tips forward, breath slowing but still coming in quick, jerky gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly as he lets his forehead press into the smooth wooden floorboards. He squeezes his eyes shut, and it's Scott above him, hand cupped over the back of his head, fingers tracing slowly back and forth over the line of his collar, his low voice murmuring, "Are you going to be good for me, Blaine? Or do I have to punish you?"

Kneeling there, back bowed and twisted so he can press his shoulders against the ground, pleasing his Dom, Blaine can call back the sound of a whip whistling through the air, the sound of hands hitting flesh, the flashes of heat as raised red marks blossom across his back, the dull ache in his ass tightening when he finally tries to move. The same hands that punished him, soothing away the aches with salves and lotions, taking him so gently, forehead tightened in concentration as his gentle fingers and lips brought pleasure searing to Blaine's skin.

"Blaine?" Despite knowing Kurt's voice, knowing he should respect him and look up and welcome the inquiring touch of his gaze, Blaine is caught up in a fantasy, body writhing against the floor in imagined ecstasy, his chest swelling with a scream caught there. He hears the thud as Kurt drops to the floor with him, the touch of cool hands against his overheated skin. "Look at me."

"Can't," Blaine pushes out of his tightening chest, the collar around his neck burning into his skin, tight against his throat. "Sir, please." Kurt's hands are everywhere, petting over his neck and back, his flushed-hot face, stroking at his sweat-soaked hair and curling around his neck, fingers running over the buckle of his collar.

"I have to take this off, sweetie," he whispers. "You have to accept he's gone, or you'll keep getting caught up like this, it's not good for you. May I take your collar off, Blaine?" Nodding, barely hearing Kurt's words past a ringing in his ears, Blaine's body seizes up as Kurt's deftly opens the buckle and the simple strip of leather falls to the floor. His entire body is agony, gut clenching and tears swelling up in his throat, and he collapses forward, head in Kurt's lap, crying helplessly.

"Sir." The single word is so ragged and desperate, and Kurt's hands are so tender, caressing the pain away, sliding over his clothes and trailing over his vulnerable bared neck. " _Kurt_."

"Shush, darling," Kurt whispers, such a longing in his voice that Blaine wants to curl up in him for days on end. "I know it hurts. Do you need anything? A drink of water, something to eat? Unfortunately pills won't help with the pain, but it shouldn't last more than a day." So delicately, he moves Blaine's head from his lap, leaving him curled around his cramping middle, walking out of Blaine's line of sight and returning to slide a pillow beneath his head, padding away again in his bare feet.

He returns and lays a damp flannel over Blaine's burning forehead, stroking his hair back from his face. "I have ice chips for you, and some bread if you're hungry," he says softly, and Blaine reaches out with a hand that feels strangely independent from his body, chewing methodically through a few slices of bread and sucking on a few ice chips, the cold temporarily stealing through his body. "It has to be this way, darling," he murmurs, kneeling behind Blaine again, smiling sadly down at his trembling, sweat-glazed body. "I wish you didn't have to be in pain."

Blaine opens his mouth to reply, glad that Kurt seems to know what he's doing and is here to support him, and promptly throws up all over the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely, eyes prickling with tears. "Kurt, I'm so sorry, please don't be mad."

"Hush, darling, it's okay, I'm not mad," Kurt says gently, stroking his suddenly pale face. "This is an awful necessary process. Your body has to realise you no longer have someone to dominate you. I've known people to go through it when their Doms break up with them and take their collars." Slipping his arms beneath Blaine's limp body, he lifts him into his arms and says, "You can stay in my bed tonight."

Kurt's room is very pretty, Blaine notices as Kurt settles him into the deliciously comfortable mattress. Just like him, sleek and fashionable with a few splashes of colour here and there. His bed is the most colourful thing in the room, the bedspread a gorgeous deep violet, and so soft Blaine curls up into it with a sigh, rubbing his cheek against the cool material. "I'm just going to clean the spare room, and then I'll be right here as long as you need me," Kurt assures him, and places a plastic bucket next to the head of the bed. "If you need to throw up again, try and aim into that, but don't worry if you can't. I know how suddenly these sicknesses come on."

Blaine's sickness lasts all night, keeping him suspended in a limbo of agony, clawing at his own neck and wrist, desperate for something there, anything to anchor him to another person. His fever spikes around midnight and he becomes delirious, seeing his imaginings of Scott's eyes staring unseeingly everywhere he looks, screaming desperately for him, his only anchor to reality Kurt dabbing at his face with a flannel, his worried expression swimming in and out of focus. Sleep takes him briefly around four in the morning, and he wakes an hour later to throw up again, finding a hot water bottle wrapped in a blanket pressed against his aching stomach and Kurt still keeping watch, soothing him in hushed tones when he whimpers at the pain searing through his head.

The pain finally lifts around seven o'clock in the morning, and Blaine eases himself onto his side, reaching for Kurt's hand. "Thank you," he says softly, and Kurt smiles so tenderly down at him, fingers combing through his hair, trailing reverently over his face, down his chest, knuckles rubbing at his stomach as the knots untangle and the agony ebbs.

"It's okay, sweetie," Kurt says softly, and Blaine can't help but feel a little twinge of disappointment that Kurt isn't calling him darling. Maybe he simply slipped into it, since he seems to have helped someone through a sickness before. "I want you to go take a shower, and I'm going to put these bedclothes in the washing machine and then we're going to see if you're better and can keep some food down."

Giving him a smile, Blaine slides his fingers between Kurt's and squeezes before he climbs unsteadily to his feet, Kurt reaching out to still him before he walks towards the bathroom, conscious suddenly of how his clothes are sodden with sweat, clinging wetly and uncomfortably to him. Turning the shower as hot as he can stand it, he steps in and washes away the pain, spending a long time rubbing moisturiser into his chafed wrist and neck, feeling as if he's wiping away Scott's marks on him as he does.

Guilt crushes into him, and his knees give way beneath him, sending him crashing to the bathroom floor, droplets of water rolling down his back as he curls himself up and lets out a broken sob.

* * *

Mist presses its long fingers against the window as Kurt slips his tie neatly around his neck, knotting it with practised fingers. The flowers, perfectly white lilies lying innocently in wait, are bound in black ribbon and waiting for Kurt to lift them and take them to the funeral. "Blaine?" he calls softly, and Blaine emerges from his room, black flattening against his body, the knot of his grey bowtie resting neatly at the hollow of his throat. His face is already streaked shiny with tears and his eyes are red and swollen up from a night of crying, his weight loss obvious as the fabric of his shirt glistens in the light, and Kurt slips an arm around him, holding the broken porcelain pieces together. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" he asks gently, and Blaine nods.

"I have to say goodbye," he says, meek and quiet, looking down at the floor, the fingers of one hand encircling his bare wrist, rubbing at the skin where the marks of his cuff once rested. Making a mental note to buy him something, even the grey cuff of an unclaimed sub, Kurt takes Blaine's hand and guides him downstairs, to the black car waiting for them, with Scott's parents and sister already inside, clothed in black and grey and white. He can't fail to notice the way Scott's sister stares when Blaine reaches for Kurt's hands, weaving his fingers between Kurt's paler ones.

The church is full, brimming luxuriously with flowers, as they file in, Blaine's hand a firm, clenching presence at the crook of Kurt's elbow as they takes their seats in the front pew, Kurt biting back a fond giggle when Blaine pulls a perfectly white handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his brimming eyes. Scott's mother gives Kurt an inquiring slanted look and Kurt tentatively smiles, circling his fingers gently around Blaine's wrist and squeezing reassuringly.

After Scott's closest friends, beautiful, fragile dancers with eyes swollen from grief, have spoken, it's Kurt's turn to step up to the microphone. He's gratified at the way Blaine clings to him when he stands up, fingers dragging down Kurt's arm as he moves away, his body seemingly shrinking even further in the pew, next to Scott's stoic-faced father. "Scott was my best friend," he says softly. "We shared very difficult and messy break-ups and we put each other back together. I'm sure we would've ended up in a relationship if we hadn't both been Doms. He was my acceptance in a town that had previously been cold to me, and I loved him like a brother. The inheritance he left me was a new friend in his wonderful sub, Blaine, and every day I find a new story to tell. I'll remember him smiling and dancing to silly music and encouraging me to say horrible things about my ex when we were younger. And I'll always miss him."

As Kurt stepped down from the low stage, Blaine stood to make his own speech, eyes already glistening with tears as Kurt extended a hand to help him up. Kurt took his seat again, smiling encouragingly as Blaine stepped up to make his speech. "I loved Scott, and he loved me," Blaine begins, his knuckles white as he clutches the microphone. Tears are slipping down his cheeks, skin shining in the flickering candlelight, and when he opens his mouth again only a sob escapes, and he collapses on the stage, ragged sobs echoing against the walls of the church.

Before any of the guests can react, Kurt's on his feet, wriggling out of his blazer and draping it over Blaine's heaving shoulders, coaxing him to his feet and into a side room as Scott's sister graciously takes the stage and breezes into her own speech. "I couldn't do it," Blaine sobs, falling against Kurt, shaking apart into pieces. "I wasn't strong enough, wasn't good enough, I failed everyone."

"No, Blaine, you didn't, you were so good," Kurt soothes him softly, stroking his hair, stiffening with too much gel, fingers sliding over his back and sides in small circles, trying to calm his shuddering breaths. "You were wonderful, such a good boy, a perfect boy." He can feel Blaine quivering with the praise, and pulls away slightly from their embrace to ask, "Do you want to go home?"

"Yes sir," Blaine breathes, and Kurt has to hide the jolting frisson of excitement that skitters down his spine at Blaine's words, hitching with his tears and breathless from crying, the way he slips so naturally beneath Kurt's arm and curls into him as they leave, standing meekly waiting while Kurt quickly texts Scott's sister to let her know they won't be returning, reaching for Blaine's hand immediately.

Blaine collapses heavily into the couch while Kurt slips off his blazer and hangs it up neatly, smoothing out the creases, slipping the knot out of his tie and weaving between the furniture salvaged from Blaine and Scott's apartment to turn the kettle on. He turns back to find Blaine a hunched ball on the cushions, sobs wracking his thin body and shaking his shoulders, and can't help the draw towards him, crossing the room in long strides to take him in his arms. "What do you need?" he asks softly, and Blaine turns into his shoulder, retching out broken, rasping sobs.

"Please sir," he chokes out through his tears, looking up with his face swollen and red, his eyes glistening with tears and cheeks stained trailing silver. "Help me." His fingers clutch desperately at Kurt, scrabbling down his forearm, and Kurt cradles him close, trying so desperately to piece him back together, to make this broken, fading boy the shining star he once was. One hand catches in Kurt's, dragging his fingers down to Blaine's thigh, passing briefly over his crotch.

Snatching his hand away, Kurt says, "Red," clear enough that he knows Blaine will hear and understand. "You're compromised, Blaine. In this state, you're not thinking straight, and I won't do this to you. Just let me help you get back on your feet." Blaine cries and pitches forward, onto the floor, kneeling at Kurt's feet, bent forward so his forehead touches the floor, a puddle of his tears spreading out over the wood as Kurt stands to prepare two cups of comforting tea and join Blaine on the floor, tugging a blanket from beneath the coffee table and draping it over his shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," Blaine sobs when he finally straightens up, hands shaking violently as he reaches for his mug. "You're right, I shouldn't have done it. We're both in a bad place right now, and I just wanted to be comforted the way he used to make me feel better. But you were right to stop me, we both would've regretted it." He smiles shyly over the rim of his mug and says, "You're a really good person, Kurt. There are so many people who would've taken advantage of me being in that state, but you didn't."

"I wouldn't," Kurt promises, and reaches for Blaine's hand with a soft smile. A thrill shoots through him when Blaine twines their fingers trustingly together, cradling Kurt's palm in his, the sight of their skin touching, pale against olive, sending a shock skittering over Kurt's skin. Blaine smiles, finally, small but bright and there, a star peering out from behind a thick grey cloud. Reaching for a tissue, Kurt carefully dabs the tears clinging to Blaine's cheeks away, cradling the back of his head with one hand and slowly stroking his fingertips through Blaine's hair, breaking the stiffened strands apart, until Blaine's face is dry and he interrupts Kurt's next words by tilting into him, arms tight around his shoulders.

"You are amazing," Blaine whispers, and Kurt positively glows at the praise. "Kurt, after Scott, I wouldn't...I never dreamed someone like you would be there to take care of me. I thought it would be like the old days, when I had to keep on holding myself together and everything felt like I was floundering because there was no one to give me routine, no one to shape my life, and when I got Sick I had to stumble to the clinics and find someone to command me. I never thought you would be there for me."

Reaching for Blaine's hand, Kurt clasps them in his, one finger sweeping out of habit across Blaine' wrist, feeling where the raw chafing of his cuff has long since sunk into his skin, leaving him free and unmarked, but seemingly falling, drowning beneath the weight of having nothing, no representation that he belongs. Vowing to find him something to wear, sleek and subtle but enough for him to have that simple weight, to have something there instead of stark empty nothing, Kurt enfolds him into his arms, cradling him as he might a child, and Blaine clings on, nudging his way into the crook of Kurt's neck and breathing slowly against his skin.

* * *

Slotting the plates into place in the cupboard, whistling softly to himself as he squeezes the water out of the cloths he used to mop the surfaces and folds them neatly over the wooden rack, Blaine turns when he hears the scuffle of feet outside, smiling when Kurt staggers in beneath the weight of a briefcase and several bags, a friend of his wandering in behind him. Santana, Blaine remembers, and a quick glance at her wrist shows she wears the modern cuff of a Dominant. She gives him a brief smile, calmly takes a seat and pulls a pair of steel handcuffs from her bag, pulling on either end to test their strength and snapping one around her wrist, shaking it vigorously back and forth with a manic jangling.

"Oh for God's sake, San, your brand new steel handcuffs are not going to snap just because your girl likes it rough, stop trying to shake them off," Kurt says with a long-suffering sigh, and Santana shoots him a sideway glare as she snaps the handcuffs off and lays them in their box, tugging out a paddle and pulling on the wood, slapping it lightly against the palm of her hand.

Rolling his eyes, Kurt reaches for Blaine's wrist and draws him close, his face lit up with excitement, and reaches into one of his bags. "I bought you something," he whispers conspiratorially, his face all joy as he pulls out a slender black box. "I thought about asking you to come so you could pick one out, but I like to think I have an eye for fashion and I wanted it to be a surprise. I hope you like it."

He lifts the lid from the box, and for a dizzy moment Blaine thinks Kurt is claiming him. But he knows Kurt wouldn't do that, not so soon after Scott's death and not without discussing it with him first. The cuff isn't black like that of a claimed sub, but a soft grey with a strand of black twining through the material, winding and carving a path through the colour of the unclaimed. To wear such a cuff is humiliating, the ultimate sign of giving up, a symbol that he will accept attention from anyone and everyone. People prey on those wearing these cuffs, hovering alone on the edges of crowds, and before he knows what he's done he's slapped the box out of Kurt's hand, shouting, "I won't wear it! I won't, I won't, I won't!"

Santana's jaw is hanging open where she's sitting on the couch, a menacing-looking vibrator in her hand, and now Blaine's started he can't seem to stop, though he can see the wound in Kurt's face and eyes and he doesn't want to scream, and yet he does. "How could you do this?! You know I don't want to let him go, you know I'm scared and lonely, and now you go and get me this stupid thing so every fucking predator will be all over me, thinking I'm desperate and they can do whatever they want. You stupid, inconsiderate dumbass!"

"I want to help, Blaine," Kurt says softly, calm in a way that fuels Blaine's rage, wishing Kurt would shout back or cry or react in some way to Blaine's harsh words. "I saw how much you missed having a cuff and I wanted you to have something to keep you together between claims. You'll find someone else soon, you're hardly likely to not be picked out of a crowd because of a little grey."

"You know nothing about claiming politics, Kurt,  _nothing_!" Blaine screams, feeling the heat of fury flood his face. "No one half-decent will even come near me if they see I'm wearing that, and how can you just assume I'll get into another claim? That means so much to me, I didn't go into it with Scott lightly, I don't know if I'll ever be ready to do that with someone else! Just because you're used to falling into bed with any sub you can pick out of a crowd doesn't mean I'll do the same!"

Kurt's next words are cold and stern, scarier than any Blaine has heard him speak before. "Santana, could you please leave us?" he asks, chillingly polite, and Santana scrambles her belongings together and leaves, already pulling out her phone to call her girlfriend. "Blaine, go to my bedroom. Take off your clothes and kneel by the foot of my bed. Wait for me. Do not speak."

Eyes filling with tears, chest leaden with the weight of disappointing Kurt, Blaine shuffles away, stripping off his clothes and folding them neatly, taking his place by the bed with his legs folded under him and his hands on his thighs and eyes trained on the fibres of the carpet, exposing the back of his neck and awaiting Kurt's touch. It comes gently, fingers lain over the back of his neck, squeezing slightly, and Kurt's voice above him, asking, "Do you know why you're being punished, Blaine?"

"You were trying to help and I shouted at you unnecessarily," Blaine intones nervously, tensing as Kurt's bare hands skate down his spine. "I insulted you and I rejected the cuff you tried to give me. I offended you and embarrassed you in front of another Dom. Kurt, I'm so-"

"You will be quiet unless I ask you to speak," Kurt says harshly, and Blaine's mouth snaps closed, allowing his body to give over entirely to Kurt's instruction. "Stand up, facing away from me. You will be given twenty hits, and you will count them aloud. You will not let your knees buckle until the punishment is done, when you will be free to move." Blaine nods slowly, and tries to relax as Kurt's arm braces around his waist, holding him up.

The first hit makes him jump, brings tears springing to his eyes, and he tries to relax again for the next one, his counting coming out in yelps of pain. By the eighth hit, the tears are dripping down his face and still he doesn't move, body brittle in refusing to betray Kurt's orders, and Kurt is relentless, demanding his tremulous counting and striking him hard, letting the lesson sink in deep, reminding him of who he is and who he has become, of how much this man holding him and piecing him back together with these hits has come to mean to him. The moment it's over, Blaine breaks and collapses to his knees, sobbing, and Kurt follows, wrapping his arms around him. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's over, and you were so good," he promises, and Blaine reaches for him, the box he's holding to his chest as if the mere sight of it might offend.

"I want that cuff," Blaine finally says, in a small, meek voice. Kurt smiles softly and reaches for it, tugging it from its cushion and wrapping it around Blaine's wrist, pushing the button through its hole and slipping his fingers between the material and Blaine's skin to check the fit, stroking gently over his pulsepoint.

The spark that jolts through Blaine, feeling Kurt's fingers under his cuff, Kurt's hand snapping it onto his skin and securing it there, shocks him to his core, leaving him naked on Kurt's floor, breathing heavily and wiping away the last of his tears as Kurt goes to find lotion for the red handprints decorating his skin.

* * *

Hearing a footstep on the floor outside his bedroom, Kurt sits up, pulling the sheets up to cover himself and calling out a soft, "Come in." The door squeaks open and Blaine steps inside, vulnerable in his thin pyjamas as he crosses the room and kneels at the edge of the bed, eyes silently asking for permission. Pulling the sheets back, Kurt smooths his palm over the bed and says, "Come on up, sweetie. It's okay."

He reaches down to his drawers, to pull out a shirt before Blaine slides in beside him, but Blaine says, "Don't," and Kurt turns back to him, eyes widening with shock. As he watches, Blaine pulls his own shirt over his head and hunches in close to Kurt, laying his head on his chest, right over his heart. "Can I stay here?" Blaine asks softly, his fingers gliding slowly down Kurt's side. "I'm always so cold. I thought you could keep me warm."

"Come here," Kurt mumbles, wrapping his arms around Blaine and pulling him closer, their legs tangling and Blaine's ice-cold feet against his calves. "Sweetie, you're freezing. Do you want me to fix the heating in your room?"

Though it's muffled into his chest, Kurt distinctly hears Blaine say, "No," before he raises his head and smiles sleepily, his eyes bright in the darkness as he snuggles further into Kurt. "You're much warmer than the heating." Kurt can't help but smile as he hugs Blaine in closer, suppressing a shiver of desire that runs hot up his spine when Blaine's skin drags against his, warm and smooth as Blaine takes charge, just for a second, and brings Kurt's hands to where he wants them to be, one resting on the notch of Blaine's waist and the other entwined with Blaine's, drawing their bodies closer together.

"Can you feel me breathing?" Kurt asks softly, and Blaine nods, eyelids already drooping, sleepy and sweet in Kurt's arms. "Match your breathing to mine, sweetie. Remember how safe you are with me. Remember no one can get to you." Almost without thinking about it, he moves his hand up and slides two fingers beneath Blaine's cuff in that way that makes Blaine twitch and his breath stutter, his body curl in closer to Kurt's as if he belongs there, as if that touch means more.

Blaine falls asleep mercifully quickly, drooling slightly on Kurt's shoulder and snuffling into his skin, leaving Kurt to lie awake watching him, stroking his hair and looking down at the mark of an unclaimed on his wrist, the gift he gave him, the cuff he chose for him and buckled onto his wrist in a way he'd once hoped would be so different. From the way Blaine responds to him now, so different from a few months ago, seeking him out and asking without words, finding him to hold him close during the long, lonely nights instead of trying to hide his tears the next morning, Kurt knows something has changed. Some brittle barrier shattered when Kurt punished him, broke him apart and built him up once more with his own bare hands, and now Blaine seems more submissive than he did before.

But there's so much that can't be known. As much as he wishes he could, Kurt can't read Blaine's mind, can't understand why he looks so sad after he leaves Kurt's arms every time, doesn't know why sometimes he hears him sobbing in the bathroom after they've spent the days together, and he can't know whether Blaine is ready for another relationship. He loved Scott, they were in a claim for almost two years, and that's something Kurt can't erase. He knows it's possible to find love again, he's seen it in his own father, but Blaine is such a romantic, he might believe there's only one love to be found in every lifetime.

Kurt's in love, and it sings joyfully in his veins, but who knows when the world will be ready to hear it, or if they ever will. Cradling Blaine in his arms, smiling as he mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and moves into the touch, Kurt resolves to talk to Scott's family, the parents and sister who are still suffering in the wake of his death, trapped under the weight of grief. Perhaps they can guide him.

* * *

Tying his scarf neatly around his neck, ready to brave seeing Scott's family for the first time since the funeral, only to tell them he's fallen in love with their late son's sub, Kurt wistfully reaches into the back of his closet and finds the slender red box, the same one that's nestled amongst his clothes since he arrived in the city, young and hopeful and opportunistic. Maybe one day, Blaine will wear this collar, black against his olive skin, with his eyes wide and bright as he looks up at Kurt from his knees, waiting for orders, waiting to be loved.

"I'm going out for the day, sweetie, I'll be home for dinner," Kurt says softly, addressing Blaine on the couch, hugging himself tightly. "You can make whatever you want, but please no more Chinese takeout ordered. No takeout, make pasta or soup or something." Blaine nods softly, and smiles over at Kurt, eyes lighting up the gloomy room. Biting his lip and deciding there on the spot, Kurt crosses the room and leans over the back of the couch to kiss Blaine's temple, soft and sweet, before he smiles and leaves, a blush warming his face, armour against the cold day.

When the taxi pulls up outside the small house on the outskirts of the city, the trees in the front yard just becoming newly-adorned with tiny buds, clinging to the spindly bare branches, Kurt tips the driver generously, turning to face the house with a sinking heart. Maybe he should just turn around and go back home, and leave this another few months until the wound isn't so fresh. But who knows what might happen in that time? Things can change so quickly and so easily, and Kurt's in love  _now_ , he doesn't want to wait. He wants to hope that it could happen, that Scott's family will accept his love for Blaine and perhaps even welcome him as a new Dom to the man they hoped to call a son one day.

Emily greets him, greying hair curly around her shoulders and a bright smile pinned on. Her embrace feels genuine, as does her kiss to Kurt's cheek as she ushers him into the front room and onto the couch, fussing over his weight as she makes coffee and cracks open the biscuit tin. Hands between his knees, Kurt gives Andrew a strained smile and tries not to shy away from Alice's prying stare. "On the phone, you said you wanted to talk about Blaine," Emily says as she sets down the pansy-patterned tray and takes her seat in the armchair. "Is there something wrong with him? Is he not recovering after the funeral? We'll be happy to pay for a grief counsellor, I know he doesn't work and you're only just breaking into the business and you aren't exactly swimming in cash."

"He's been getting better since the funeral, actually," Kurt says, wishing he didn't have to indulge in this small talk and he could reach his point and leave, go back to Blaine knowing whether or not he has this family's approval to pursue a relationship with him. "I think breaking down was catharsis for him, he's much better these days. Eating and sleeping right, and singing again." Looking down at his lap, toying nervously with his fingers, he said, "It's actually more about me than him. I...I've fallen in love with Blaine, and I want to pursue a relationship with him. But I won't if you don't want me to."

Andrew sits up, and Kurt can't help but tense, nerves alive with fear of their reaction. "Kurt, I may once have hoped to have Blaine as a son one day, and loved him like one, but with Scott's passing that connection to him also passed," he says, and Kurt nods slowly. "It's none of our business who Blaine chooses to move onto after Scott, but I can't think of a better candidate than you. You've gone above and beyond the call of duty for him since the accident and I know you'll take care of him."

Eyes filling up with unwanted tears, Kurt smiles and nods, and made his excuses to leave, heart singing with joy. Blaine can be his, he will be his, and now Kurt can walk into their home and sweep Blaine off his feet and kiss him breathless the way he's wanted to for years. Blaine is standing at the stove when he walks in, stirring pasta and singing softly, and Kurt stands silently to watch him for a while.

When Blaine notices him, it's with a start, shoulders jerking, and then his face lights up with joy, bright and open and beautiful, and the pasta goes ignored as he crosses the room into Kurt's arms. "I missed you," he whispers into Kurt's neck, and Kurt can't help but smile, kissing Blaine's temple.

Blaine eventually comes back to himself and serves up dinner, sitting on the end of the couch with his legs crossed, and Kurt can feel his gaze on him as he reorganises the stacks of papers on the shelf, alphabetising the folders for work so he's ready for the week coming, getting Isabelle organised to fly out to Paris for Fashion Week. "Tell me to kiss you."

Kurt thinks he's imagining it, for just a second, but then he turns around and Blaine is perched on the couch with eyes full of hope, gazing at Kurt with his hands folded in his lap. "I can't," Kurt says softly. "if you need an order, you're not ready."

Blaine stands and crosses the room, sliding his hands up around Kurt's neck, leaning up so his breath plays warm against Kurt's lips. "C'mon, Kurt, tell me to kiss you," he says, tone flirtatious, but there's a doubt in his eyes that Kurt doesn't want to see, and he pushes Blaine's hands off him.

"No," he says sternly, and turns back to his organising. "You're not sure of us yet, I can see it, and I won't have you doing something that feels right in the moment that you wish you hadn't later. I...I can't be your regret, Blaine. It would hurt too much."

Blaine's hand lands on his shoulder, and Kurt turns to look at him, Blaine's eyes wide and honest and shining wet, and he says, "I could never regret you," as he leans up, arching up onto his tiptoes, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers curl around the back of Kurt's neck, fingertips sliding into his thick hair, damp from the rain pattering lightly at the windows, his breath hot against Kurt's lips as Kurt finally lets his eyes snap shut, hands finding their anchors on Blaine's slender waist.

When their lips meet, it's magical. Fireworks behind Kurt's eyes, Blaine letting out a shuddering gasp against his lips, his other arm coming up around Kurt's neck, bringing their bodies closer together, his lips soft and warm and sweet, his body trembling as Kurt clutches him closer, kissing back with purpose, feeling Blaine's lips part and his tongue brush against Kurt's. It's everything Kurt ever dreamed of, and so much more. It's so much that there are tears in his eyes when they finally part, Blaine's smile dreamy and his eyes opening slowly, as if he's trying to hold onto the moment, his breath leaving him in a soft, contented sigh.

"Are you okay?" he asks, expression metamorphosing in a second from peaceful to concerned, seeing the tears glittering on Kurt's cheeks, even as he tries to dab them away. "Kurt, did you not want that? Is that why you wouldn't tell me to kiss you? Did I push you too far? Please, Kurt, I'm so sorry." He drops to his knees, bowing his head and placing his hands neatly on his thighs, such a perfect picture for Kurt. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"No," Kurt says softly, eyes full and bright with tears, lifting Blaine's head with two fingers beneath his chin and down smiling into his eyes. "You were perfect, sweetie. You're a good boy. You're  _my_  good boy." Blaine  _beams_  at him, scrambling up off his knees to lean in again, as Kurt rolls onto his back and welcomes Blaine on top of him, his perfect weight across Kurt's hips, his kisses deep as Kurt's hands run down his arms, one finding his dull grey cuff.

"I don't think you need this anymore," Kurt says softly, and swiftly unbuckles the cuff from Blaine's wrist, tossing it away to languish in some forgotten corner of the room. Blaine smiles, shaking his unbound wrist free, and wraps his arms around Kurt's neck, their chests pressed together as he kisses him again, tongue sliding into Kurt's mouth and hips pressing into his stomach.

By the time they finally get to bed, it's long past midnight, and they've simply lain on the couch acquainting themselves with each other's mouths, learning every whorl of tooth off by heart. With his arm across Blaine's waist, lips pressing soft kisses against the back of his neck, Kurt is content. "My sweet boy," he whispers into the darkness, and feels Blaine stir. "My good boy. My Blaine."

And Blaine's voice echoes in the darkness, curling down into Kurt's heart and making him feel that, at last, he's found home.

"My Kurt."


End file.
